#BLESSED

Sunbeams aren’t something I notice.

Mostly it’s my own breasts, bobbing with effort

like I’m a man writing the story of a woman

and the way her nipples strain politely

against the confines of her blouse.

I think I’m neat. I think I’m good enough.

Still, a cell memory of strangulation

tickles the pale of my throat, my author squeezing,

waiting for irises to bloom in recognition:

today is the last day &

my lips curl in gratitude to have occupied

the other in the rent-to-own body,

all those low voices cradling me in private, in public,

making me feel safe when I wasn’t.